


Dream A Little Dream

by Whatsastory



Series: Trope Me, Baby, One More Time [5]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 2 boys 1 bed, M/M, bed sharing, first time sharing a bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23508196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatsastory/pseuds/Whatsastory
Summary: "Mickey," Ian sighs, and Mickey knows what he's going to say before he even says it. Still, he tenses when he finally does spit it out. "Get in the bed.""Nah, man. I'll live.""Get in the bed," Ian says again, a little less patient."I'm good-""Get in the fucking bed, Mickey. Jesus fucking Christ!"
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Trope Me, Baby, One More Time [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668712
Comments: 28
Kudos: 311





	Dream A Little Dream

He should have left earlier. He fucking knew he should have left earlier. 'It'll be fine, Mickey. Finish your shift,' Margot, the store manager told him. 'I'll keep an eye on the weather, Mickey,' she promised. 'It's not so bad yet, Mickey.' And then, fucking and then, 'Um, hey, Mickey. The L is shut down. The rails are too icy.' 

"Fu-ck," he mutters and runs both of his hands down his face. "Dammit!" 

So he's gonna have to walk home. In snow up to his god damn knees. Snow up to his god damn knees with a thin layer of ice at the top. So he's going to have to stomp his way through. He's going to cut up his legs. He's going to get hypothermia. He's probably going to fucking die out in the slush, all for a job that barely pays minimum wage. 

"I'm sorry," Margot tells him and slaps a hand on his shoulder as they stare out of the storefront window at the near white out blanketing the world. "I should have told you to go sooner. Should have just dealt with Ian." 

"The fuck you keep me here for? He could have handled it," Mickey bites. 

"Don't trust him alone. Need my best man here," she shrugs and Mickey bristles. “Plus, he likes you. Works better with you than any of us.”

Honestly, how and why in the fuck does it fall on to him to be Gallagher's keeper? The guy's worked here for six months and he's still a walking fucking disaster. The only thing keeping him on is his customer service skills. That, and he suspects that Margot has a thing for him. It can't be his math skills because his invoices and balanced tills are atrocious. It's not his stocking skills because the guy can't face a shelf to save his damn life. But he's pretty and he's sweet, or whatever, not that Mickey would ever say that to him. Or anyone.

And maybe Mickey likes working with him. Gets a kick out of him when it’s just the two of them, even if he’s had to train and retrain the guy a hundred fucking times. Funny thing is, anyone else he would have fired months ago. But there’s something about Gallagher that he can’t let go of. 

Just as he's lost in thought, thinking about the pros and cons of being the assistant store manager (there's far more cons at this point in time), there's a clatter. Well, a clatter isn't exactly the right word. It's more of a... thunderous, booming, deafening sound coming from aisle six, followed very closely by a loud, "Fuck!" 

Then again, fucking Gallagher is a god damn disaster. 

"You know the best thing about being the store manager, Mickey?" She asks. "It's sending my assistant to go deal with incapable stock boys." 

"You're fucking kidding me. You're not only ruining my night by making me walk the fuck home in the god damn blizzard of the century, but now I have to go deal with his fucking klutzy ass? What, you hate me that much? Fuck I ever do to you?" 

Not that it’s really that big of a sacrifice...

"Give you an extra day's pay for your troubles?" 

"Fuck," he mutters and sticks his hand out to shake. "Deal." 

He starts to walk away, think of ways he could rip Gallagher a new asshole, and definitely not in any biblical sense of the phrase, when Margot calls his name. 

"He lives across the street. Maybe if you ask real nice and bat your eyelashes, he'll let you crash." 

He scowls and flips her the bird. Two birds, as he walks backward. She fucking hates him, that's all there is to it. 

"Gallagher!" He barks as he rounds the corner, eyes scanning the case of canned soup littering the shoddy tiled floor. "The fuck? You better have a broken fucking arm, a concussion or have been shot. So help me fucking god." 

Ian looks up from his crouch on the ground, eyes wide and shoulders hunched. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he finally gives up and shrugs apologetically. He looks genuinely upset by it, small down on the ground, and Mickey feels himself deflate. Fucking Gallagher.

"God dammit," Mickey mutters and slinks down to his knees as well to start picking up. "Your hands made of fucking jelly?" 

"I... my meds. Make me a little shaky. I'm sorry. I'm trying."

Mickey leans back on his haunches and bites at his lip. Fuck. The guy's got some sort of medical condition and here Mickey is, being a fucking asshole... even if he is fed up with cleaning up behind him. 

"Shit, man. It's none of my business," Mickey assures him and bends back over to clear the mess. 

"No, it is. It's your business because I'm making your job harder all of the fucking time. And I know you guys are sick of it. So, just, I'm sorry." 

Mickey stands up and starts stacking his armload on the shelf. Ian puts his own on the cart behind Mickey and takes a few steps back, slumped and defeated. Mickey finishes his task and turns around, taking a deep breath and preparing himself to be uncharacteristically soothing. 

"Look, you might be shit at stocking. And ordering. And cashiering..." 

"Jesus, why don't you just fucking gut me?" Ian asks with a nervous little trickle of laughter and a hand on the back of his neck. 

"But," Mickey keeps talking like Ian hasn't said anything, "You're great with the customers. They fucking love you. There's people that only come in here on the days that you work. And that's saying something. Definitely don't come in here for my negative ass. You're not a worthless member of the team, okay?" 

Ian lights up a little, like a kid on Christmas. Or, well, maybe not that much, but definitely like a kid that's just gotten a sucker or some shit, a little dopey, and Mickey smiles back at him... just a little. Maybe more of a smirk. 

"So you like me, then?" It's more of a challenge, the way he asks it. A little something hidden below the surface that makes Mickey bristle. 

"Don't get ahead of yourself, kid."

Mickey should leave. He should have fucking left when the train was still up and running, but the snow has slowed down to a few wispy flurries and the walk won't be any harder than it would have been an hour ago. And maybe he's dragging his feet a little because as rough and tumble as he is, he god damn hates the god damn cold, and he's dreading getting all wet and shivery. 

And not to mention he's the manager on duty tonight anyway. He's supposed to balance the registers and close the store down. He's supposed to be the last man standing, and he thinks he is, until he hears a knock on the manager's office door. 

He yells that it's open and when it squeaks on it’s hinges he looks up to see a tired looking Ian leaning on the door frame. He's thin and long and maybe a little elegant in his stance, so sue Mickey for fucking looking. 

"I'm gonna head out, I guess. Try my best not to freeze to death on my way home," Ian says awkwardly. 

"Yeah, man. Have a good night." Mickey's distracted, head buried in a pile of credit card receipts he's balancing. 

Ian doesn't make any moves to go, just stands there watching him like a fucking weirdo. Mickey sets his pen down and leans back in his chair, eyebrow arched in waiting. 

"You waiting for a kiss goodbye or some shit?" He asks, looks smug.

Ian grins and rolls his eyes, like he's the coolest, baddest motherfucker there ever was, and maybe he looks good, the way he can take Mickey's bizarre sense of humor and let it roll off his shoulders. "You see all that snow?" Ian asks dumbly. 

"Gee, must have missed it since I don't have fucking eyes." 

Mickey's brash. Always has been. There probably isn't a single person in the world that he speaks kindly to, never felt the need for it. For most people, when they talk to him and he opens his mouth to say something back, they act indignant. Affronted, maybe. It's the custom that Mickey's grown used to, but Gallagher... he fucking smiles. Bright and cheery and enough to where it catches his eyes in barely there crow's feet. He laughs at him, like Mickey's a damn comedian, and it's... Mickey doesn't know. It's weird. 

"Shut up. I mean, did you see how hard it's coming down now? Probably can't see two feet in front of your face out there."

"No the fuck it's not." It's not that Mickey doesn't believe him, it's just that... goddamnsonofabitchfuck seriously?! He's up and on his feet before Ian can respond, damn near sprinting to the front of the store. He stops dead in his tracks when he looks out, because true to Ian's word, it's a wall of fucking snow. Just sheet after sheet of white fucking death, and there's no way in hell Mickey's going to be able to make it home in this. 

"Fuck!" He yells, hands on the glass of the window like maybe he can melt it all with his mind. 

"You, uh, live around here?" 

"No I god damn don't live around here! There's no fucking way I can walk home in this. Dammit!" Mickey leans an arm against the glass, and his forehead on his arm as he watches the snow come down. "Gonna have to sleep in the manager's office. There's no way we'll be open tomorrow. Probably gonna be fucking stuck here for a couple of nights! Knew I shouldn't have let that bitch talk me in to staying." 

Ian's standing back, taking it all in, reaching his hands so far deep into his pockets that Mickey almost expects him to pull a fucking tent out of them or something. 

"Go home, Gallagher. One of us should at least get to sleep in a bed tonight," he mumbles and pushes past Ian back to the office. He looks around the office- there's not anywhere he can lay down, but maybe, if he angles the chair to the left, he can prop his feet up on the desk. Maybe it'll keep his neck from-

"You can crash at my place. Y'know, if you want." 

"I... no. Thanks. I'll be fine here," Mickey lies, but he's not a fucking charity case. He doesn't need his employees feeling sorry for him and thinking they need to like, fraternize or some shit. 

"Mickey," Ian says, almost like he's chastising him and cocks his head to the side. "What're you gonna do? Use a loaf of bread as a pillow? Open up a roll of aluminum foil for a blanket? Don't be stupid. I live across the street. You're welcome to ride this out with me." 

He's not gonna lie. The thought of a hot shower and a soft place to sleep is tempting. Really tempting. And maybe something to eat? Sounds really fucking good... but, no. Doesn't look good. He's worked hard to get where he is. And he didn't get there by making friends. And definitely not by spending the night with the dork ass stockers that he may or may not have a slight little thing for. He got there by working his ass off and stomping on necks. He shouldn't be throwing it away like this. Stupid? Maybe. 

"Nah, I'll-"

"Be fine here. Yeah, you said that. Just shut the fuck up and come the fuck on," Ian interrupts him, and Mickey fucking laughs. He doesn't usually get talked to like this. "Time’s a wasting, you stubborn prick." 

"Ay, easy. I'm still your boss," Mickey says, but there's no heat in his words. 

"Actually, you're not. I clocked out fifteen minutes ago. So now you're not shit to me but a dickhead that can't get home. So, I say again, let's fucking go." 

"Jesus, if I agree to come, you gonna get off my ass?" 

He chooses to ignore the little smirk that Ian has, and the very pointed way that he keeps his mouth shut.

It's not a long walk, though Mickey wouldn't exactly call it 'across the street,' as advertised. It's more like up the block and around the corner, but he can't really complain. He lives a few miles south of the store, and with the way he's straining as it is, he'd probably die before he got there. 

This snow is something else. Extra wet and slushy near the bottom, crunchy with ice near the top. The total height of it comes up nearly to Mickey's knees, and he can't remember a time when it was this bad. 

"You wanna hold up a minute, Sasquatch?" He yells to Ian, who seems to have made much faster progress. 

"Not really," Ian tosses over his shoulder with a shit eating grin. "Guess I'm not bad at everything, huh?" 

"S'got fuck all to do with your abilities, man. It's those long, gangly ass alien legs doing all the work." 

Ian laughs, high and loud, barely muffled by the snow. It's a nice sound, geeky as it is, and Mickey hopes he can keep hearing it. Or actually, no he doesn't, because he's his subordinate and Mickey's not like that. 

"Better than those tree stumps you're working with!" 

"Ay, my legs are normal, fuck you very much," Mickey says and walks past Ian where he waits. 

"Oh, you leading the way now?" 

"Have to do everything else for your ass. Might as well lead you home, too."

Ian's apartment building is... not nice, by any sense of the word. It's dilapidated at best, with some of the windows cracked and holes in the walls of the hallway leading to his unit. But once he's inside, Mickey's pleasantly surprised by Ian's space. It's clean and well kept. Smells good, like Lysol or Pinesol or some other cleaning bullshit. It's well taken care of, far more so than Mickey's place, but that's another story for another time. 

However, the pleasantries are short lived as Mickey looks around and realizes it's a studio apartment. There's just one room, with one bed, no couch, and one old ass looking arm chair. 

"Ian, please tell me there's a hidden room somewhere and you didn't drag me all the way the fuck over here for me to sleep on your floor?" 

Ian shrugs apologetically and looks around like he's taking it in for the first time as well. 

"You don't have to sleep on the floor. I mean, I don't care about sharing. I've got a fuck load of brothers- wouldn't be the first time I didn't get a bed to myself." 

"You're kidding, right?" Mickey drags his thumbnail across his lower lip, trying his best not to throw a temper tantrum where he stands. He's a grown man, he needs to act like one. 

"No?"

"I'll take the chair." He's grasping at straws, here. There's no way that he's going to sleep a wink in that thing, but there's also no way in hell he's climbing in bed with some dude he barely even knows. At least not one he'll have to see again. And again and again. "'M all wet, anyway," he says, and for the for time takes stock of himself. He really is fucking soaked to the bone. His black jeans are wet up to his waist and the bottom of his shirt hasn't faired much better. And he doesn't even want to think about his boots and socks that squish with every step he takes. 

"You can borrow something of mine," Ian offers off handedly, sitting down on the edge of his bed to take his own shoes off before he puts them neatly by the door. "...or you can just stand there, dripping all over my floor, I guess." 

"Shit, sorry, man." Mickey walks to the door and leans against it to pull his shoes off, followed by his socks, and lines them up with Ian's. In his own home, they come off wherever he throws them, but he figures he should respect the guy enough to adhere to his customs. If only his dad could see him now. 

"You wanna take a shower? Pressure sucks but it gets hot." 

Naked. In some dudes house that works for him? God, this shit only happens to Mickey, he's certain of it. But now that he's thinking about it, he's exceptionally cold and a good, steamy shower sounds like bliss. 

"If you don't care, I guess." 

"Wouldn't have offered if I cared, now would I?" 

Mickey snorts at the way Ian's eyes crinkle up, like he knows he's smug and thinks he's funny all in one. 

"Don't know what kinda shit you're into," Mickey teases. 

"Could show you." Ian winks and Mickey's brain blanks out for a minute. Full on doesn't know what to say, other than; 

"Said you got something I could borrow? Think anything'll fit me, Jolly Green Giant?"

Mickey's handed a pair of old basketball style shorts and a ratty tshirt. It's nothing fancy, but pulling off his cold and wet jeans is heaven. No, scratch that, the shower is heaven. It's boiling hot, and maybe it comes out in a trickle, but it's nothing he isn't used to. 

He lets the heat wash over him, warming up his numb toes first and all the way up to the top of his head. He imagines an alternate universe where he told Gallagher to go fuck himself when the opportunity to go home with him, and he feels sorry for that version of himself. As uncomfortable as he is, it's ions better than sleeping at the store. 

Gallagher's body wash smells like citrus. Maybe not oranges, but maybe tangerines or some shit. It's good. Smells nice. Masculine, but not overly so. The shampoo is some kind of mint, and it makes his scalp tingle. That's good, too. And though he wouldn't have thought that the odd combo would work, it somehow does. 

The towel he was given is soft. Too soft. Like it's been washed a thousand times and lost all of its absorbent qualities. But it does the trick as well, even though it's speckled with holes. 

The clothes fit. Not well, but they stay in place when he pulls them on, and he can't ask for much else. 

"Feel better?" Ian asks when he comes out in a billow of steam, pink and warm from the water. 

"Yeah. Sure."

"Good." It sounds sincere, lamented by the soft and pleased smile plastered against his features. "You hungry? Don't have much, but I've got a frozen pizza." 

"Kinda late for food, isn't it?" Mickey asks as he pulls his cell phone from his pocket to check the time. "'S'after midnight. You don't gotta cook for me." 

"It's cool. I have to eat with my meds anyway." 

It's the second time he's mentioned it, the medicine. And Mickey would be lying if he said he wasn't crazy curious, but again, he understands it's not his place and it's not his business. 

"Aight. Pizza sounds good. Uh, thanks." 

It's oddly domestic, Mickey thinks, the way Ian shuffles around the kitchen and he himself settles into the arm chair (which he was right about, it's horrendously uncomfortable). Ian hums a little tune to himself, something that sounds very much like an AC/DC song that Mickey can't quite place. Mickey picks at his nails. 

"Be done in like a half hour or so," Ian informs and dips down onto his mattress. 

"Cool. That's cool. Thanks for cooking." 

Ian rolls to his side and props his head on his palm, facing Mickey. Studying him, almost, and Mickey refocuses himself on cleaning every speck of dirt beneath his thumb. 

"I don't usually bring people here," Ian muses. "At least not until after they've bought me a drink." 

"Psh. What kind of girl do you take me for, Gallagher?" 

It's a game to Mickey, this little back and forth. Some weird manifestation of nervous energy and no real way to expend it. It's fun, he guesses, to put himself out of his comfort zone and banter. He doesn't usually do that. And he remembers why when Ian says;

"Don't take you for a girl at all. That's kind of the point."

Mickey flounders. Doesn't like when he doesn't have the upper hand. Doesn't like when he can't one up him because he doesn't know what to say. Doesn't like that every time he rags on Gallagher, he's got something to say back. Or maybe he does like it. Maybe a little too much. 

Dinner is fine. Frozen pizza is frozen pizza. It's a little freezer burnt and a little actual burnt, but it's food, and Mickey is no stranger to eating shit that's kind of nasty. He'd grown up on a steady diet of Pringles and Gatorade and very little in the way of real nutrition. So, the pizza is fine. 

After they've finished, Ian does the dishes right away, with soap and hot water and the works. Tells Mickey thanks but no thanks when he offers to help. Dries them. Puts them away and wipes down the sink and counter tops. 

It's perplexing to Mickey. He's not a slob, per se. But he's also not a neat freak and his own little shit hole apartment is what some might call, 'lived in.' 

"You always keep your place this clean, or you just trying to impress me?" Mickey asks as he watches the way Ian's shoulders flex as he scrubs. 

"I like things in their place. Helps keep my routine in check. Keeps me balanced."

Ian's a spaz, Mickey realizes, not for the first time as he lays (sits fully upright) on the chair with a threadbare blanket and and aching back, listening to Ian toss and turn. Every few minutes there's a little shuffling noise followed by a quiet groan. Rinse and repeat. Mickey listens for a while in the quiet dark of Ian's small apartment, until he fully can't take it anymore. 

"Lay the fuck still, man. Jesus."

"Shut up. You lay still," Ian bites back, and even though Ian won't be able to see it, Mickey smirks into the darkness of the room. 

"I'm not even laying. How can I lay still?" 

"It's your own fault you're in the chair. Already told you, you can get in the bed."

"You just don't quit, do you, Gallagher?" 

There's another little shuffle, and through the dim yellowed light coming in through the slats of the blinds covering the window above Ian's bed, he can see that Ian's twisted towards him now. 

"Maybe I'm just as stubborn as you, Milkovich." 

Micky scoffs, quiet but sarcastic, and settles a little further down in his chair. He's not comfortable, by any means. His whole body is going to scream at him in the morning, but whatever. There's some lines that just can't be crossed. 

He doesn't realize that he's fallen asleep until he wakes up. He's disoriented for a myriad of reasons. Namely, it's completely dark now. Pitch black. So dark you can't see your hands in front of your face kind of dark. 

Secondly, he's freezing fucking cold. So cold that his teeth chatter and his fingers are nearly numb. 

"Hey," he croaks, voice thick with sleep and maybe a little bit of worry. "Gallagher." 

"Fuck," Mickey hears. "Mickey?" 

"Fuck happened? Power's out or some shit."

"Fuck," Ian groans again, and there's a fumbling sound. The clatter of something falling from Ian's end table, and finally a light clicks on, and Mickey realizes that it’s coming from Ian’s cell phone. 

Mickey squints through the pain in his eyes as they adjust, looking around at his surroundings in a daze. Until he looks at Ian. When he sees him, he barks a laugh, and Ian whips toward him with interest. 

"Your hair, man. What the hell is that thing on your head?" 

Ian's hand goes up tentatively, and his face changes into an eye roll as he smoothes down the porcupine-esque strands into place. Or at least attempts to. It's cute. Or not cute, it's not cute. It's funny. Whatever. 

"You really wanna talk about my hair right now? I'm fucking freezing to death, I think." 

"Yeah, well, you've got a blanket. I've got the shroud of Turin over here. How old is this piece of shit, anyway?"

Ian rolls his eyes again, and Mickey's tempted to spout off about insubordination, but before he can say anything, Ian's up and on his knees, peering out of the window. 

"Looks like everyone's out. Dammit. Who knows how long it'll take to get back on in this snow," he says, and slinks back down immediately to cocoon himself back into his comforter. "This is the fucking worst." 

"No, again, you have a whole ass blanket. I've got a sheet. This, this is the actual worst."

"Mickey," Ian sighs, and Mickey knows what he's going to say before he even says it. Still, he tenses when he finally does spit it out. "Get in the bed." 

"Nah, man. I'll live." 

"Get in the bed," Ian says again, a little less patient. 

"I'm good-"

"Get in the fucking bed, Mickey. Jesus fucking Christ!" 

The thing about Mickey is, people don't talk to him like that. And if they do, they're lucky if they walk away with just a busted lip and a bruised ego. Gallagher's really fucking lucky that Mickey's feeling charitable, and really, really fucking cold. 

"Don't get your panties in a fucking twist, damn," he says even as he stands up, because bravado and all of that. 

"Worry about my panties after you get under the fucking cover."

Mickey climbs in slow. Tentative like maybe Ian will attack when he gets too close, or maybe Mickey will. Who the fuck knows. He just knows it's fucking awkward to all hell, and he makes sure he's faced away from Ian when he lays down. 

It's better, the bed. Soft and worn in from being used for who knows how long. There's a spring that pokes into his side, but it's nothing he isn't used to. His own mattress was used before he got it secondhand, and he knows how to contort his body to avoid the bad spots. 

"You good now?" Ian asks in a whisper, calmed down now from his little outburst. 

"Fine," Mickey bites, because good isn't the word he'd choose to describe his situation. Fine is as close as he can get. 

"Warm?" 

"You wanna play twenty fucking questions now?"

"Maybe," Ian mumbles. "Usually I get to know the men in my bed before I actually, you know, let 'em in my bed." 

Mickey goes cold with the words. Feels a tingle raise up his spine like prickly little needles intent on making him suffer. He sits up as quickly as he can manage and glares down at Ian's form. 

"You gay or some shit?" 

"Uh huh," Ian says, nonplussed. "Know you are, too." 

The tingle edges to terror, and Mickey feels himself heating up, blood boiling with rage and fear and unpleasantness. Mickey's made a lot of strides over the years. In his late twenties now, he's a lot more comfortable in his own skin, a lot less afraid than he had been even five years previous. But that doesn't mean he goes and shows his ass to anyone and everyone. 

"Relax, tough guy," Ian tells him with a dramatic sigh. "Your secret's safe with me. And I won't try shit... until you ask me to," he adds with a wink.

Mickey is... flummoxed. Ian is flummoxing. He's bold and bright and out there and kind of really fucking weird. But in the brightness of Ian's phone flashlight, pure, blinding white light, Ian's smile is even more brilliant in the way the shadows deepen his dimples and makes his teeth shine. 

"Makes you think I'll ask?" Mickey asks, a little breathless, sort of quiet. 

Ian only shrugs in response and settles back down against his pillow. He clicks the light off and shuffles around in the blankets until he's found comfort. 

"Night, Mickey." 

Much to his surprise, the next thing Mickey notices is that the room is bright, in a hazy, blue sort of way. It's morning, or maybe afternoon, who knows. But it's daytime. He blinks around the weariness in his eyes, and takes in his surroundings. It's pretty much the exact same that it had been the night before. The only difference is, he's warm. 

He's really fucking warm. Just on the verge of being too much, it's just right. Only- it's not. It's not because there's a source of the heat, and it's in the form of an arm wrapped around his middle and a body pressed against his back. Legs lines up with his own and breath at the nape of his neck. 

He feels paralyzed. Or maybe frozen in time or some stupid shit. But strangely, he doesn't feel compelled to move. So he doesn't. Instead, he blinks, and when his eyes open again, the room is brighter. 

"Morning," he hears when he sits up and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Eggs are almost done." 

"Okay," Mickey mumbles and trods off to the bathroom. He shuts the door quickly behind him and goes to the sink to rinse his mouth out, happy to find that the warm water works, which means the electric must be back. He tries the switch and is bathed in a sticky yellow light. 

His reflection isn't something that he expects. Looking in the mirror his eyebrows shoot up his forehead as he leans in. Even in the ugliness of the old overhead dome light, he looks... well rested. More so than usual, anyway. The perpetual bags beneath his eyes have all but vanished, and the semi permanent bruise like rings have lessened. He looks... Jesus he looks good. 

"Hungry? Food's hot," Ian grins when Mickey steps back out into the main room. He doesn't wait for an answer, thrusting a full plate in his direction anyway.

They start to eat in silence, with Mickey back in the chair and Ian on his bed with his feet kicked up. Mickey can't help the way he keeps looking over, eyes drawing over Ian's long legs, from his toes to his hips and back down. Until Ian catches him. He has the good grace not to say anything about it, but he grins salaciously and licks his fork clean. 

“Don’t have to keep feeding me, man,” Mickey says, only to break the mounting fucking tension that’s settled over the two of them. 

“It’s fine. Told you, have to eat with the meds. Speaking of which...” 

Ian stands up and rifles around through his end table, and finally pulls out a good handful of orange tinted bottles and taps a pill or two from each of them into his palm. Mickey knows he shouldn’t ask. It’s not his business, and as Ian’s manager, he could get into a whole lot of shit for concerning himself with it in the first place. It when he sees so many, it’s hard not to. 

“Jesus. You got cancer or some shit?” 

“No. No, not cancer. It’s uh...”

“No, my bad, man. Don’t tell me. None of my business.” 

Ian sighs and sits back down on the edge of his bed, tossing the pills in his mouth swallowing them down with a gulp of water. 

“I’m bi polar,” he says finally. 

“Ian, seriously. I don’t need to know any of your shit-”

“No, you should know. Because at some point I’m gonna fuck you.” 

Mickey’s eyes go wide and his mouth goes dry. 

“Excuse me?” 

“I- shit. No, what I mean is, I’m gonna fuck you over. Like, at work.” 

Mickey’s heart isn’t sure if it’s relieved or maybe a little disappointed, or maybe a little of both. He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say shit. He sits quietly and lets Ian figure out if he wants to keep talking, which of course he does. 

“Meds keep me straight most of the time. Level, you know? But they’ll fail at some point. They always fucking fail...” he trails off softly. “So one day I’m either gonna lose my shit, or I’m gonna fucking fly the coop and you’re gonna hate me for leaving you short staffed on no notice. But Mickey,” he says and stands to walk and sit on the edge of the bed right in front of Mickey, looking earnest and sad and small. “...You’re a really good manager. You’ve helped me a lot. More than you know, probably. And I don’t want you to hate me. So I’m telling you now; if I ever don’t show up, it’s not because of you. And I want to tell you in advance that I’m sorry. I really, am. I just hope when the time comes, you won’t think of me negatively.” 

Mickey opens and closes his mouth a few times, not sure of what to say, or if legally, he should even say shit. But when Ian’s eyes start to water just the slightest bit and he stands up with a sniff, Mickey grabs his wrist and turns him back around. 

“I won’t fucking hate you, man. I won’t.” 

Ian gives him a watery smile, one that doesn’t really reach his eyes. One that looks like it’s a little too painful to form, but he tries anyway. 

“You say that now-”

“I won’t,” Mickey says with promise. “I won’t. You’re a good... worker, or whatever. Nice guy. You’re... you’re a really nice guy, Ian.” 

Ian gives a little chuckle, and Mickey’s stomach does that stupid fucking swooping bullshit that the movies always talk about, and he internally cringes at it. 

“Think that’s the first time you’ve ever called me by my first name...” 

“Yeah, well don’t get used to it, fuckface.” 

Ian laughs, really laughs, and Mickey can’t help but smile. At least until Ian looks down at where Mickey is still holding on to him, and then smiles back like it’s a challenge. Mickey drops his hand and settles back into the chair, momentarily lost for his next move. 

Ian gives a shit eating grin and grabs Mickey’s plate before taking it to the sink and starts to scrub it along with his own. 

"You know, Mick, I checked a little bit ago. Public transit's still down. So, guess you're gonna have to walk home," he says, same sly smile locked firmly in place. 

"Shit," Mickey mumbles and runs a hand down his face. It's miles away, and in clear conditions it takes a good chunk of time to get there. But add the snow? Fuck, he's gonna be lucky if he can ever feel his legs again. "Alright. I guess I'll get go-"

"Or you could stay." 

"'Scuse me?"

"You could stay. Here, again tonight. Hope for greener pastures tomorrow."

Mickey scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. On the one hand, he could stay here, warm and dry. But with Ian. Ian, who maybe he's seeing a little differently after the night before. With Ian, who apparently relaxes him enough to make him sleep like the dead. Ian, with his long, lean body and a jaw that could cut glass and who has the perfect, sunset colored hair. Ian, who's gay. And maybe has been flirting with Mickey a little? 

Ian, who’s open and trusting. 

"You look like you're about to blow your top, you're thinking so hard." 

"Just- trying to think of the quickest route home..." Mickey lies, face reddening at having been caught. 

"Am I really so bad that you'd risk it out there to get away from me?" He asks with a nervous giggle. “Too crazy for ya, huh?” 

“Nah, it’s not that. Just... you know. Don’t wanna overstay my welcome...” 

Mickey stands up and makes a grab for the clothes he came in and cringes when he feels that they’re still wet from the night before. 

“We uh, we still gonna be cool? After... everything I told you?” Ian asks, and Mickey can tell he’s uneasy. Everything from the of in his voice to the way he leans against the counter rigidly. His body is screaming for normalcy, and Mickey can provide that if nothing else. 

“Course. Why wouldn’t we be?” 

Ian’s mouth crinkles and he looks towards his pill bottles and back to Mickey. 

“Fuck all that. Don’t give a shit about it,” Mickey assures. 

“No?” Ian asks and steps closer, tentatively. 

“Jesus, how many times I gotta tell you?” 

“I just wanna make sure you don’t see me like some fucking charity case or some shit. Just a regular guy to you?” 

“Why do you care what I think? I don’t matter.”

“I care because I’m really thinking about kissing you, and when I do, I need to know I’m not gonna scare you off.” 

Mickey freezes in place, but his mind takes off like a bat out of hell. He just. He. Huh?

“What?” Is the only thing he’s able to articulate, though it’s low and he sounds like he’s just run a mile. 

Ian smiles again, though this time it’s real and bright, and he takes a step closer, before he swoops down and presses a gentle little kiss against Mickey’s open mouth. 

“You alright? Still good?” 

“Uh huh,” Mickey says, still frozen. 

“You okay if I do that again? Maybe you can give a little back?” He’s all humor, like he’s thoroughly enjoying the shit show Mickey’s presenting. And Mickey liked it. Ian’s his employee. And he probably shouldn’t. But it’s a fucking grocery store and he ain’t the fucking president. 

“Uh huh,” he decides on again, and this time when Ian kisses him, he kisses back. 

It takes a moment for him to remember that he’s got hands, a full body that he’s not even using, so he drops his damp jeans and fists his fingers into Ian’s hair. He, in fact, does give a little back this time. He gives a lot back, matching Ian’s vigor with everything he’s got. 

He laughs a little against Ian’s lips when he thinks about the change from just this morning, not forty five minutes ago, but what the fuck? He’s just supposed to turn him down? 

“You gonna stay again tonight?” Ian asks with all of the hope he can muster, his breath floaty against Mickey’s neck when he moves to mark him up. 

“Jesus. I say yes, you gonna keep doing that?” 

“Promise. Scouts honor.” 

When they go to sleep that night, they don’t have to fall in to bed. They’ve already spent a good part of the day there, save for when Ian made a gourmet dinner of grilled cheese and watery tomato soup. Mickey doesn’t protest sleeping next to him, and why would he after he’s already slept with him? 

“Remind me to get stuck in more fucking blizzards,” Mickey mumbles as he starts to drift off. 

“Told you you’d ask for it,” Ian says, and Mickey can feel the grin pressed against the back of his neck. Sleep comes a lot more easily than it had the night before.


End file.
